Carded Life
by Aunt Ginny Potter
Summary: Ziva David wasn't moving on. She was going back, even if further into the past than they would've liked. Tag to 'Past, Present and Future'


**DISCLAIMER: THE TV SHOW 'NCIS' IS THE PROPERTY OF CBS.**

She'd hurt them by her choice. All of them. And she couldn't assign the blame for that on anyone else. She took the slightest bit of comfort that it was what she needed to do, and she thought that they could… grasp the significance of that. Somewhat.

Life was a treacherous thing, and one you couldn't help but to worship. She did – not for herself, but for those around her. Well – not around her anymore, but she thinks you get the point. She was thankful for every happy moment her friends, her family, had.

Her relationship with Life was complicated. She was happy that it was semi-stable for the ones she loved, but her selfishness cursed it for the bad hand it'd dealt her.

Much like with her father, she had issues with Life.

She was running away, then. For the first time in her existence, she had made the decision to defy that hand. Orders had driven her for so long, that, when she finally found herself some breathing room, she hadn't been able to deal with it. That new chapter in her book, in America, seemed like a poor apology for everything she had gone through, but, if there was one thing she'd learned, it was that Life wasn't fair.

But she would take what she could get, and, for a while, it was almost enough. The way she was doing things now made her feel less battle-worn, even if before she'd have called it inefficient. She was smiling more often, and while she realized that America was having its impact on her, she found herself not caring all that much.

But there had to be a balance to things, and her balance had always been biased, tipped negatively.

He came into the picture then. Looks, grins, smirks, and finally smiles, things had gone downhill from that fast. She'd hated the way she'd worried when his car had exploded before her eyes, and she'd hated the way he'd worried when the FBI was after her. She'd really, really hated the way she'd felt jealousy grip her insides at his non-disclosed assignment girl, because why was he so serious about her? Why was he so damn distracted all the time?

Those thoughts begged to be entertained, but she refused to do so.

She had paid for that tentative development. Dearly. She had allowed herself to trust him to an extent that she would never have permitted before his country had softened her. And when he finally betrayed that trust, it had hurt all the more.

It had put a strain in their relationship that she had never overcome with anyone else. If something like that had happened before, it would have been the end of their association, whichever kind that was. And she would have been hardly bothered by it. She wouldn't have felt the need to take missions to keep her mind keenly off of it, or to avoid the loss in her chest that had mostly nothing to do with a dead boyfriend.

She hadn't cared to try to rekindle with him. She was so tired of being hurt, of being attacked, that putting that trust back in someone capable of tearing her apart was akin to suicide, in the state of mind she'd been in.

And yet he had come. And made it sound so simple too. 'Couldn't live without you.' Followed, of course, by a catalyzer of the weight of those words.

It was infuriating, and infuriating was refreshing, because she had hardly felt a thing during the months she'd spent in that desert.

He just sat there, like the foolish, overgrown child he was, and joked, just because he felt like it, and possibly because he couldn't deal with what was happening any other way. And she was annoyed, because the deal with Life was that she would be thankful for the safety of her… friends. And, currently, they hadn't been safe.

But hadn't she been angry with him? She had, hadn't she? She was pretty sure of that. Definitely mad with him like she wouldn't believe.

She went home with them.

She stayed away from them for a couple of days. She needed time to sort herself out. He, and everyone else in America, were supposed to be the ones she wasn't supposed to trust, because they had betrayed her. Her father's own disregard for her didn't count, because he was her father and he owed him eternal loyalty, and because she was used to it.

And, because if that, it had felt so good to have someone who she could trust, and hold onto. So when her boyfriend had ended up dead, it was her father she chose instead of him, who held that trust. Because she preferred to expect betrayal than to expect the opposite, only to be disappointed.

Except he had come and no one else had. It was very simple. Not her agency, not her father. Him.

The first time she visited her former work place, the room had been cleared by the most oblivious people at the look he'd given her. To him, she'd been dead, brought back to life, then disappeared for a few days – and it was showing in the way he had drunk her in.

That was when she started see what her presence brought him. She wasn't dumb, and it was in plain sight. He had become so… drawn to her, that her misery became his. And she couldn't have that. Let Life have every go at her it wanted– but she refused to allow it to happen to him. That care, that care that made her defensive of him when he was threatened (even if the threat was her and his relationship with her), didn't seem to have felt the hit of his betrayal. Which made her wonder if it had ever really happened.

She mused on what had happened to bring them to this moment. Because he was worried about her, and because she had never said a thing to appease that, he'd pried into her personal life, and then he'd gone to her apartment to try to get an explanation to what seemed like treason. She'd crucified him for that – but she wasn't one to take things back, and she still believed that at least part of her accusations were still valid. She had been blinded by grief before, and she had been looking for a target, and he had seemed available and open enough to fill the part – but her betrayed feelings had had to have a source.

She would fully admit that her reaction had been more than over the top, and his blatant stupidity of going to the middle of nowhere in blind vengeance, knowing full well he would hardly leave alive, wasn't exactly something she'd call an offence. He'd made up for it, and, just like that, they were right back to where their flirting, joking selves had been, with an underlying respect and reliance that there hadn't been before.

Then came the not-so-subtle moving on. He'd seemed to accept that they were going nowhere further, and that was that. Just like her, he searched for something else – anything else – that could come close to what they did to and for each other.

Fallen through was probably the understatement of the year when that all ended. And they were right back to where they started, and she was growing exhausted of it.

It seemed that every step they took then was toeing closer and closer to the line separating them. The one that had been there ever since they'd met. Every single thing they did seemed to be what they were supposed to do to be closer to each other. At times, her thoughts led her in dangerous directions that told her that, logically, this could only end one way. That it was impossible that, lying on that bed in Berlin with his half-asleep reassurances (it was, apparently, his subconscious that told him that he would relax her), they wouldn't eventually fall into each other's arms.

Because of some crazy twist, suddenly, not even their jobs were stopping them, and it was like it was expected of them for that to happen. And she found herself giving the first steps in that direction, inviting him to be her company in a homeland that was filled with painful reminders of how much Life disliked her.

Except… no. Because, all of a sudden, there was her brother's aching other half, and they were being targeted, and it was too much. And they wouldn't be, because she wouldn't allow that to happen.

She wouldn't allow him to have to carry the burden that she had made of herself. All the places she visited, all the people she saw, they all told her one thing – she had been brought up in a battlefield since birth, and nothing her mother had done had deterred her father from making sure of that. The world was whirling around her and, in the end, she was all alone.

Life had done that. And, for the first time since she had begun blaming Life for all the wrongs in her path, she tried defining it.

She couldn't name it him, because he would never have wished for her childhood on anyone, much less her.

She couldn't name it her father, because her father hadn't made her fall in love with her partner, nor had he made her find a family in America (a real one, like all non-blood families were).

She couldn't name it her family (the one in Israel) because the ones that weren't dead knew her as well as the receptionist at her work- at her former work.

She stuck with a deck of cards, then. Each card another piece of her existence. She didn't know if the cards were added or if that deck already contained all there ever was, or would ever be, in her life. She'd like to look at the deck. She'd like to see how his card was drawn.

But it didn't matter. That card was finished. She was leaving (had already left, even) and she had no intentions of returning.

She needed to go back in time. Not to before America, but before that. Before everything, before she had been deemed acceptable to be trained, before the seeds of what she was now had been planted into her. She needed to try and undo every part of her that her father had ruined, and give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'daddy issues'. She wanted to see herself as a new person – not the Israeli assassin, but someone – anyone – else. Someone who could blend in as a regular Jane, without mistrust, in America, and who could stand out in Israel as normal (too normal for the daughter of who her father was in that country).

For that, she needed to be alone. To let go of everything she held so precious, so dear, because a good achievement didn't come cheap or easy. To have everyone she loved around as she tried to change the part of her that was most alike them, was impossible.

Taking off on her own without a word of explanation seemed the best and most obvious path. With one notable exception – she couldn't have stopped herself if she tried. The idea of leaving him… nothing, of letting him forget her without a second thought, didn't sit well with her. She sent him a picture – one of the pictures she kept almost always with her. And the necklace – the one he'd gotten for her after she'd lost hers in Somalia. She couldn't bear the thought of him having nothing to remember her by, but she could have nothing to remind her of him. It was painful enough that she'd have him as a constant presence in her mind from then to always, and anything that might have even the slightest trace of his memory on it was to be left behind too. With him.

Goodbyes had been something she had grown to hate with a passion. She had said it too many times, but it wasn't until she'd learned to care, it wasn't until she'd learned to melt the ice (the one she'd had to create, unless she'd actually wanted the pain and hurt that would come from being emotionally open in her line of work and family) that they had begun to bother her. So she hadn't wanted to do it. She'd preferred to suddenly disappear, and let them deal with it their own way.

She hadn't- hadn't considered him. Well, she had, of course, almost every day, but she hadn't considered that he'd track her down. She'd assumed he'd definitely try, maybe even come close and make a few disappointing trips – she hadn't expected him to succeed. But he liked to defy Life too, and, for him, part of his hand of cards would be her departure. And he liked it as much as she had liked the card she'd been given for her childhood.

He was the majority of the reason she hadn't wanted to say goodbye. She'd avoid his eyes, but he'd still burn a hole into her, and she wouldn't be able to deal with it. It was unbelievable, because never before had she been a coward. And he was so unpredictable that the unknown of his reaction terrified her. The fact that he would try to change her mind scared her too.

She doubted her ability to resist him if that happened – and she knew that he knew that. He'd always refrained from pushing her too far in fear that she might give in, and then regret it. Not on the beginning, of course, but in later years of their partnership, he was more cautious. It wasn't that she couldn't say 'no', but it was that his opinion had a pressing effect on her that she couldn't deny. And if he used the full weight of that opinion somewhere where she was weaker (like the place she'd called her home for eight years) she wasn't sure she would still have the strength to do what she needed to do.

Maybe that had made it easier to stay in Israel when he came for her. To bid him farewell, even if heart-wrenchingly painful, in the place that so hurtfully reminded her of why she was letting her heart break. She had never met anyone who had had the ability to break her heart before America, except her family – and, even then, she had never allowed herself to show it so blatantly, to anyone. In front of him, she let the tears fall in ridiculously obvious proof that this wasn't what she wanted. Not to part ways with him. But, though she could see it killing him to do something they were both so opposed to doing, he respected that it was what she needed. And he boarded that plane.

Life worked like that. If she was going to defy it, then it was going to make sure that she would do it in a way that would bring her as much regret and sorrow as it could.

She didn't know if she would ever reach the peace of mind that she needed to see him again. Didn't know if she'd ever go back to America, to the ones she loved – or if they would even want her back. So she watched him fly away, and she stayed, rooted to the spot, proud of having opted against her wishes. But needed to follow her heart, and though a great part of that was going home at the moment, the rest of it was so withered and so tortured that it wouldn't handle the effort of keeping up.

She needed to fix it, and then, maybe, she'd go home. Until then, she was going to chase whatever cure she could find to finish what he had started in America – to make her able to give trust again.

She'd intended to make her next call short and clipped, and not at all the emotional sob-fest it was. At the nickname she'd grown so irrationally fond of, she broke down for the last time in the man's ears. She was supposed to be the tough one, but somehow, that father (unlike the man who'd provided part of her DNA) always seemed to be the one distributing comfort, which by itself was mind-blowing, because any word he said had a very specific purpose, and to soothe was hardly ever one of them.

Back in her home, no one objected at the explanation or the abrupt leaving. The only two that had actually spoken to her made sure of that. They urged everyone to move on, even if one of them kept a very carefully arranged drawer with all the things that were hers and that she had (mistakenly) assumed as thrown out already.

They were moving on. Eventually, and possibly in the far future, but they were. Even if the smile her partner now sported wasn't quite as bright, wasn't quite as mischievous, and even if his jokes and pranks were nowhere to be seen, and even if his boss was a little shorter than usual, they were stepping around the brick wall in the road. But it was always going to be there, visible no matter how much further they advanced in that path, and maybe, one day, it'd catch up to them in the form of a returning Israeli beauty, but not for now.

They'd have to resign themselves to that, and, for the near future, it would most likely be by not thinking about it. But they knew one thing that made it a little better, and that was that she was finding some peace of mind. They knew, too, that Ziva David was not moving on. She was going back.


End file.
